


Thus Attired

by Fyre



Series: Desire Increase [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dressing Each Other, Sauntering gently towards intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26956213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: After the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley are trying new things.Wherein a demon helps an angel dress for a night out
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Desire Increase [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784770
Comments: 36
Kudos: 181





	Thus Attired

Sometimes – not often, mind you. Don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea – Crowley likes to dress up in something a bit flasher than usual. Nice cut. Tailored. Elegant. Sort of cool, but only if you’re in the right kind of company. If you went down the pub in East End in it, you’d look like a knob.

He strides into the bookshop before he can change his mind, heels clacking on the floor.

“Angel!”

“Through here, my dear!” Aziraphale’s voice drifts from the back of the shop.

Unsurprisingly, the blessed creature is sitting in his armchair, a mug of cocoa in one hand, a book in the other. He’s even in a cardigan for a change. Cosy. Ready for a night in.

Crowley swishes to a halt, changing gears. Shit. Should’ve called ahead.

Aziraphale sets aside his cocoa and takes off his pointless little glasses to give Crowley a deliberate and very thorough look up and down. “My word,” he says softly – almost prayerfully. “You look _lovely_ , Crowley.”

A choked off sound hitches in Crowley’s throat and he fiddles self-consciously with the intricate jet and scarlet beading coiling over his right hip. “S’just something I had lying around,” he lies through his teeth. As if he hadn’t spent hours trying different cuts and styles. As if he hadn’t shortened and lengthened his hair every which way until he finally settled on a tousled updo.

“Are you going out somewhere nice?” the angel prompts, smiling.

He’s an absolute bloody menace.

“Course I am,” Crowley grumbles fondly. “Just came to see if you fancied coming too.”

And there it is, that tiny little squashed down bastard of a smile, the one when he knows exactly what Crowley’s up to. Or if not exactly, then the general shape of it, and it involves a caper. He closes over his book, keeping the tip of his middle finger tucked between the pages.

“And where,” he says, all sweetness and light, “am I being whisked off to?”

Crowley, with a flourish that would make the Amazing Mr Fell sigh with satisfaction, whips two tickets out of thin air. Not really, though. Out of the pocket that his bloody dress absolutely has. “Got a couple of circle seats for Tosca.”

Aziraphale lights up. “Oh, you didn’t!” And his fingertip slides free of the book, proof positive that Crowley has won over words and cocoa. “I had no idea you wanted to see it.”

But Crowley has known for weeks that Aziraphale would, though he would never press Crowley to attend an opera that isn’t a particular favourite. “Call it a nice surprise,” he demurs, fanning himself with the tickets. “You fancy it?”

“Of course!” Aziraphale gets up quickly, book and cocoa forgotten. “We mustn’t have long until the house opens! Oh and I’m all dressed down and everything.”

Downside of all those hair and wardrobe trials: no time for a leisurely dinner, watching Aziraphale bask in the pleasure of rich meal followed by all the indulgence of the opera for afters. Still, as least they can have a nightcap later.

“We’ve got a bit of time,” he says, approaching to calm Aziraphale’s anxiously fidgeting hands with his own. The angel goes still as a statue, staring at him, then a small, pleased smile trips across his lips. It’s enough to make Crowley fidget himself, so he busies his hands undoing the buttons of Aziraphale’s cardigan. “You just need your waistcoat and coat, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale turns on the spot, shining like a small, localised sun, as Crowley slips his cardigan from his shoulders and steps back with it. “Oh yes.” He bustles back and forth, fetching his waistcoat, then plucking the still-warm cardigan from Crowley’s hand to hang it up when he fetches his coat. And that’s when he hesitates again and – as with so many of his requests – only looks at Crowley and tentatively holds it out.

They don’t need the words. Not those words. They never have. Crowley will lay out gentle kindness for the angel who has had no such thing before. He will do so from every day into eternity, because if anyone – _anyone_ – deserves it, it’s the angel who gave away his sacred weapon out of kindness and who smiled at a demon.

Crowley takes the coat from it, holding it open for him as Aziraphale turns his back and extends back his arms. They’ve never done this before, this particular kind of intimacy, and it shouldn’t feel important, but it _does_.

As Crowley steps closer, as the sleeves slide up Aziraphale’s arms, bringing them closer together, as his arms wrap around the angel, drawing the coat closed in front of him, they stop, just for a breath, a moment, a perfect, finite instant, as they breathe in as one, back to chest, palms splayed over a thundering heart.

And when they step apart, it’s not to move away, but so Aziraphale can turn, straightening his lapels and smoothing his coat down.

“Am I presentable?” he asks, tugging down the end of his waistcoat.

Crowley steps close before he can continue the next step of his particular little dance and lifts his hands to gently tweak Aziraphale’s ridiculous, silly, adorable little bow tie.

“You’ll do,” he says, grinning.

Aziraphale searches his eyes – somehow, even through the glasses, he can always find them – then lifts his hand and cups Crowley’s cheek. The touch is soft, featherlight. “Crowley,” he says, a strange quaver under his voice.

“Ngh?” Crowley says, perfectly coherently and not at all aware of the angel’s fingertips like branding irons on his cheek.

“May I kiss you?”

The sound Crowley makes is somewhere between a gulp and a kettle whistling. So he nods instead. Only a little, so he doesn’t lose the scorching fingertips.

Aziraphale’s cheeks pink, soft and warm, and very politely, very chastely, he leans closer and – as light as his fingertips – his lips brush Crowley’s.

They draw back in the same moment, staring at each other.

The world didn’t end, Crowley thinks, tongue flicking out and catching the whisper of Parfum d’Angel. Aziraphale _kissed_ him and the world didn’t end. And he’s still smiling, small and shy and pleased and that’s good. That’s _very_ good.

Mutely, Crowley offers his hand and just as quietly, the angel takes it, but Crowley catches a glimpse of their reflections in the panes of the shop door as they head towards it, and they are both beaming like love-struck idiots.

“Opera!” He declares, because who doesn’t love a non sequitur?

“Opera,” Aziraphale agrees, sounding bright and happy, and his hand is warm in Crowley’s.

It’s a good night. Bloody good night.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Thus Attired](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27039682) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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